, ,

The sun’s pale rising
marked a slow end to night.
Darkness receded hesitantly
and Dawn, gray as a faded hag,
limped across the fields.

Sparrows, ever optimistic,
fluffed their feathers
against a chill wind and awoke
with a song.

Punxsutawney Phil roused,
saw his shadow
and made his glum prediction
of six more weeks
of winter

while we
sipped our coffee
leafed through the seed catalog
and hoped for a miracle.